LIBRARY  ~ 


UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

UflltfERSlTY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 

LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA 


IMPORT  AND  VALUE  OF  THE  POPULAR  LECTURING 
OF  THE  DAY. 


A  DISCOURSE 

PRONOUNCED 

BEFORE  THE  LITERARY  SOCIETIES 

OF    THE    UNIVERSITY    OF    VERMONT. 

AUGUST  3,  1842. 


BY    CALVIN    PEASE. 


PUBLISHED  AT  THE  REQ.UEST  OF  THE    SOCIETIES. 


£ln  fbrvsf  t  n  JJcess,  • . -ISutlf nflton : 
CHAUNCEY     GOODRICH 

18412. 


PH 


DISCOURSE. 


F  must  acknowledge,  that  on  a  certain  point,  I  have 
been  hitherto  resting  in  a  mistake.  And  the  prospect  of 
appearing  before  you,  as  I  do  to-day,  has  most  deeply 
convinced  me  of  it.  I  had  believed,  that  the  expression 
of  peculiar  emotion,  in  which  a  speaker  is  wont  to  in- 
dulge, on  occasions  like  this,  was  but  a  preliminary  flour- 
ish ;  a  kind  of  prelude, — if  I  may  use  the  figure, —serving 
both  to  conciliate  the  "  the  attention  and  good-will"  of 
the  audience,  and  to  lubricate  the  finger-joints  of  the  per- 
former. But,  I  stand  corrected.  A  host  of  old  remem- 
brances throng  in  upon  me,  exciting  an  unknown  conflict 
of  emotions — of  humility,  and  gratitude,  and  pride,  and 
brotherly  sympathy.  For,  it  was  but  yesterday  that  I 
was  on  this  stage  as  one  of  you.  I  cannot  help  regard- 
ing myself  so  still.  And  so  I  would  be  regarded.  I  am 
grateful  and  proud  that  I  have  not  been  forgotten, — that 
I  have  been  invited  to  come  up  here  and  celebrate  with 
you  this  literary  festival.  I  love  to  be  remembered  by 
any  body ;  especially  by  you,  who  are  here  convers- 
ing with  what  I  was  wont  reverently  to  converse  ;  in 
mysterious  communion  with  those  same  spirits  which 
breathed  into  me  hope  and  courage.  And  I  love  to  in- 
dulge the  fancy,  which,  indeed,  I  cannot  hinder,  that  I 


4 

am  again,  as  I  used  to  be,  in  the  world,  but  not  of  the 
world — looking  out  upon  its  strife  and  .its  manifold  phe- 
nomena, sometimes  with  longing,  sometimes  with  dread — 
always  with  wonder. 

It  is  to  one  of  the  newest  and  strangest  of  these  phe- 
nomena, which  you  have  doubtless  looked  out  upon,  not 
without  interest,  that  I  wish  now  to  call  your  attention. 
It  is  that  foaming  vortex  of  '  lecturing '  de  rebus  omni- 
bus et  quibusdam  aliis,  in  which  the  whole  land  is 
whirling — when,  and  in  what,  to  rest  is  a  problem  to 
which  different  solutions  are  given,  according  to  the  vary- 
ing interpretations  of  the  phenomenon  itself. 

These  interpretations,  indeed,  vary  between  the  widest 
extremes.  On  the  one  side,  is  heard  the  exulting  shout 
of  those  who  whirl  unresistingly  in  the  vortex  :  "  Does 
not  wisdom  cry  and  understanding  put  forth  her  voice  ;"* 
behold  the  '  progress  of  the  species '  and  the  '  march 
of  mind ' !  and  on  the  other  side,  the  contemptuous  mur- 
mur of  those  who  will  be  overwhelmed,  rather  than 
gyrate,  against  their  will,  they  know  not  whither :  '  What 
meaneth  this  bleating  of  the  sheep  in  mine  ears  ?'  f 

I  shall  endeavor  to  contribute  something  towards  the 
solution  of  this  problem.  I  know,  indeed,  that  the  phe- 
nomena which  present  themselves  in  the  current  of  human 
affairs,  are  regarded,  for  the  most  part,  as  the  bubbles 
which  appear  on  the  surface  of  a  stream — evanescent  and 
unimportant :  the  stream  rolls  on,  and,  with  all  our  revo- 
lutions and  reforms,  bears  us  steadily  along  with  it,  to- 
wards the  infinite  sea.  But,  bubbles  as  they  are,  they 
furnish  to  each  successive  generation  the  argument  of  its 

*  Prov.   viii :  1.  t  I  Sam.  xv  :    14. 


peculiar  hopes  and  fears ;  its  sources  of  prophecy ;  the 
determinants  and  almost  the  conditions  of  its  endeavors. 
Like  the  witches  in  '  Macbeth/  they  '  stop  our  way 
with  prophetic  greeting ;'  *  and  with  '  hurly-burly '  and 
'  bubbling  caldron/  work  out  dark  answers  for  eager 
questioners — but  not,  we  hope,  too  dark  for  interpreta- 
tion. 

The  witches'  caldrpn  is  but  too  apt  an  emblem  of  the 
whirling,  tossing  hubbub  of  which  I  am  to  speak.  But, 
I  shall  not  attempt  an  account  of  all  its  magical  ingre- 
dients. The  political  element — the  whole  matter  of  '  So- 
cial Compact/  '  Rights  of  Man/  and  '  Rights  of  Wo- 
man/ I  shall  leave  untouched,  and  inquire,  only,  con- 
cerning our  literary  condition  and  prospects. 

The  respones  to  such  inquiry,  I  am  persuaded,  will  be 
found  clear  and  full ;  all  that  can  be  wanting  is  the 
Seer, 

" to  look  into  the  seeds  of  Time, 

And  say  which  grain  will  grow  and  which  will  not."  * 

To  us,  who  are  no  prophets,  it  is  sadly  true,  the  cur- 
tain of  mystery  hangs  around  much  that  is  before  our 
eyes,  and  in  our  hands.  The  most  we  can  claim  for 
ourselves  is,  the  assured  belief  that  therein  lies 


that  truth  we  live  to  learn ;"  t 


and  the  utmost  of  our  hope,  to  be  entitled  to  say,  like 
Schiller  on  his  death-bed,  '  Many  things  are  becoming 
clearer.' 

I  have  specified  as  the    theme   of  discourse,  the  mani- 
fold  forms   of  lecturing   on   manifold    subjects,    which    is 

*  Act  I,   Scene  III.     t  Ibid.  t  Scbil.  Pic.,  A.  II,  S.  IV. 


so  prominent  a  feature  of  these  times.  This  is  not,  how- 
ever, because  there  are  elements  in  it,  which  are  not, 
also,  in  the  general  literature  of  the  day.  It  is,  in- 
deed, only  a  different  mode  of  presenting  essentially  the 
same  thing.  I  shall,  accordingly,  refer  to  the  one  or  the 
other,  as  convenience  shall  dictate ;  for,  my  object  is  to 
determine  the  import  and  value  of  the  phenomenon  in 
question,  which  can  be  done  only  in  so  far  as  it  can  be 
traced  to  its  sources  ;  and  these  are,  doubtless,  essentially 
the  same  for  both. 

It  is  very  manifest,  I  think,  that  phenomena  of  this 
kind  point,  more  or  less  directly,  to  a  want  of  the  Human 
Spirit,  for  which  they  offer  themselves  as  a  supply.  This 
want,  although  it  always  exists,  is  not  always  felt ;  and, 
when  felt,  does  not  always  well  understand  itself — indefi- 
nite, and  neither  eager  nor  clamorous.  In  these  respects 
it  is  very  unlike  bodily  wants.  When  we  ask  for  bread, 
we  will  not  receive  a  stone,  unless  to  fling  at  him  who 
mocks  us  with  the  offer.  Hunger  is  definite,  and  knows 
what  it  would  have,  and  is  not  to  be  pacified  or  put  to 
silence  unsupplied.  It  asks  for  food, — and  will  not  be 
put  by  with  pictures  of  it — descriptions  and  demonstra- 
tions of  its  properties  and  uses.  Unfortunately,  it  is  far 
otherwise  with  wants  the  deepest  and  most  vital — with 
spiritual  wants.  These  it  is  easy  to  put  asleep  by  imagi- 
nary supplies,  and  silence  their  clamors  by  that  which  is 
not  bread  ; — and  yet,  only  for  a  time — not  permanently, 
nor  forever.  The  immortal  soul  still  abides,  still  lives, 
and  will  continue,  at  times,  to  make  report  of  itself — 
raising  its  cry,  though  feeble  and  almost  inaudible,  for 
supplies,  and  will  not  always  be  mocked. 


-It  is  an  important  epoch  for  it,  when  it  has  found 
itself  cheated  by  dreams  and  imaginations,  and  comes 
I  forth,  with  earnest  and  importunate  demand  for  actual 
supply.  For,  it  shall  not  be  always  unheeded.  When  it 
has  become  conscious  of  itself,  and  of  its  own  wants,  it 
seeks  earnestly  for  knowledge  and  insight.  It  will  know 
the  truth  of  what  it  sees,  and  hears,  and  is.  Light  be- 
gins, little  by  little,  to  come  in  upon  it,  as  if  through 
crevices.  A  multitude  of  problems  present  themselves, 
which  it  must  solve  or  get  solved.  Things,  before  un- 
heeded, become  wonders,  mysteries.  On  every  side  they 
rise.  Now,  where  is  the  Seer,  the  Prophet,  the  Teacher, 
— any  body,  that  can  keep  to  insight.  For,  insight  it  must 
have.  It  must  find  the  truth.  In  that,  alone,  can  it  find 
rest.  In  these  circumstances,  whoever  has  any  thing  to 
say  or  do  that  will  in  any  wise  unravel  these  mysteries, 
or  any  of  them,  is  welcome  ;  and  will  be  listened  to  and 
heeded  eagerly  and  reverently.  For  solution  and  settle- 
ment, or  at  least  the  appearance  of  it,  is  now  indispensa- 
ble. But  the  latter  will  suffice — for  a  time  ;  provided  it 
be  brief  and  immediate. 

Indeed,  with  many — perhaps  with  the  most — this  want 
of  the  spirit  is  mostly  traditional,  and  only  dimly  felt. 
It  has  been  handed  down  from  the  fathers,  that  "  for  the 
soul  to  be  without  knowledge  it  is  not  good."*  And  the 
Scribes  and  Pharisees  and  expounders  of  the  Law  give 
their  sanction  to  the  tradition ;  and  it  is  therefore  un- 
doubtingly,  believed.  But,  traditional  sources  of  supply 
will  satisfy  traditional  wants.  The  '  form  of  knowledge,' 
without  the  spirit,  will  keep  all  quiet  in  such  a  soul. 

"  Prov.  xix :    2. 


8 

Yet,  a  form,  at  least,  must  be  had,  for  the  want  is  not 
wholly  traditional.  It  is  sufficiently  felt  to  give  a  strong 
bias  in  favor  of  the  tradition. 

And,  not  only  so ;  it  is  believed  that  this  is  peculiarly 
the  age  of  knowledge — science — civilization.  That  which 
is,  at  all  times,  the  interest  and  desire  of  men,  becomes 
now  their  duty.  Every  man  may,  and,  therefore,  ought, 
to  catch  some  glimpse  of  the  light,  in  which  all  knowl- 
edge, human  or  inhuman,  floats.  Whoever,  then,  will 
promise  to  communicate,  shall  not  want  listeners,  provi- 
ded his  terms  be  not  too  difficult  and  severe — provided 
he  do  not  so  communicate,  as  to  shake  the  complacent 
belief,  that  there  is  something,  in  the  age,  peculiarly 
fitted  to  facilitate  the  acquisition  of  sound  and  sufficient 
knowledge.  Knowledge  must  be  poured  out,  without 
delay  and  without  [stint,  that  they  may  become  knowing 
speedily,  and  feel  themselves  not  altogether  in  the  rear, 
in  this  l  age  of  progress.' 

Besides,  handicraft  has  now  become  scientific.  That 
slow  work  of  the  hands,  whereby  the  industrious  poor 
man  earned  his  bread,  is  becoming  superseded.  Science 
has  invented  machines  to  do  all  that,  in  a  twinkling.  So 
that  it  is  not  the  want  of  the  soul  alone,  nor  the  rever- 
ence for  old  traditions,  that  asks  for  science ;  but  also 
the  stomach  itself  and  the  palate.  It  becomes  one  of  the 
organic  wants.  It  is  science  or  starvation.  There  is  no 
alternative.  If  not  science  enough  to  make  a  machine  ; 
at  any  rate,  enough  to  use  one,  and  become  one.  Essen- 
tially different  as  is  this  clamor  of  the  stomach  for  sci- 
ence, from  the  hungering  of  the  soul  for  Truth,  the  for- 
mer is  still  mistaken  for  the  latter.  This  mere  irritability 


of  the  coating  of  the  stomach,  does,  really,  pass  itself  off 
as  the  waking  up  of  the  Life  of  the  Soul,  and  the  sub- 
lime and  pure  aspirations  of  the  spirit  for  high  and  ulti- 
mate truths,  pure  as  itself.  It  persuades  itself,  that  the 
knowledge  of  processes  to  procure  with  facility  the  quan- 
tum sufficit  of  meal  and  wool,  is  also  the  bread  of  Life 
for  which  the  Soul  hungered.  There  shall  not  lack  avid- 
ity, therefore,  to  give  heed  to  whosoever  promises  to  give 
clue  to  such  knowledge. 

In  these  days,  also,  it  is  the  fashion  to  be  learned — 
to  be  scientific.  Science  is  the  theme  in  the  bar-room, 
in  the  market,  in  the  parlor.  And,  there  is  force  in  the 
homely  proverb,  "  As  well  be  out  of  the  world  as  out  of 
the  fashion."  Indeed,  be  out  of  the  fashion  and  you  are 
out  of  the  world.  Consequently,  as  the  coxcomb  puts 
himself  into  the  hands  of  the  tailor  to  be  moulded  and 
fashioned  as  seemeth  to  him  good,  with  the  same  alacrity 
and  docility,  and  with  no  higher  nor  different  aim,  do 
men  open  their  mouths  to  receive  whatever  word  any 
itinerant,  fashionable  lecturer  may,  in  his  good  wisdom, 
drop  into  it.'  This  will  they  also  utter,  in  all  places,  and 
in  the  presence  of  all  men,  thereby  giving  indubitable 
evidence,  to  all  whom  it  may  concern,  and  others,  that 
they  are  of  the  literati ;  which,  being  interpreted  accord- 
ing to  the  ( philosophy  of  clothes,'  means  fops.  For  to 
speak  of  science  and  literature  is  the  fashion  : 

"Ay,  fashion  you  may  call  it."* 

This,    however,    is    nothing   new,    except    in    its    extent. 
There  has    always   been    a    coxcombry   of  science.     The 

*  Hamlet,  Act  III,  Scene  III. 

B 


10 

word  pedant  used  to  signify  a  literary  fop,  or  a  fop  in 
literature ;  but  the  word  is  nearly  obsolete  now.  It  is 
not  distinctive  enough.  It  comprehends  too  much,  and 
too  many.  For,  there  is  amongst  us  a  very  numerous 
class,  to  whom  the  term  pedant  is  not  applied,  (however 
deserved,)  who  yet  seek  learning  mostly  for  the  purpose 
of  display.  They  feel  a  most  absorbing  desire  to  shine  ; 
to  be  distinguished  amongst  the  crowd,  and  pointed  out 
to  strangers.  By  them,  learning  is  sought  for  ornament, 
not  for  use ;  as  a  genteel  accomplishment,  not  as  the 
solid  ground-work  of  character ;  as  a  pleasant  amusement, 
not  as  life's  grave  business  ;  as  a  holiday  recreation,  not 
as  a  stern,  imperative,  constant  duty. 

There  being,  thus,  a  two-fold  demand  for  knowledge — 
one,  sensual,  and  the  other,  spiritual ;  we  shall  find,  that, 
in  this  case,  the  common  rule  of  production  will  hold 
good,  viz :  that  the  supply  is  proportionate  to  the  de- 
mand ;  and  as  the  one  call,  or  the  other  predominates, 
so  the  supply  will  be  of  the  character  adapted  to  the 
wants  of  the  one  or  the  other — will  have  the  form  of  re- 
sults, rules,  processes  ;  or  of  truths,  laws,  principles — the 
former  being  all  that  is  necessary  to  meet  the  wants  of 
the  sense,  and  the  latter  being  that  which  alone  can 
satisfy  the  soul. 

If  the  want  of  the  stomach  is  more  clamorous  than 
that  of  the  soul,  it  will  be  proportionately  more  fully 
supplied.  It  will  have  an  advantage,  moreover,  in  this, 
that  the  very  supply  of  the  stomach  claims  often  to  be 
also  the  supply  of  the  soul;  whilst  those  higher  wants  re- 
main unsupplied;  the  voice,  that  feebly  calls  from  within, 
is  stifled  ;  and  man,  made  in  the  Image  of  God — immor- 


11 

tal — spiritual,  becomes  only  the  most  perfect  of  animals ; 
the  highest  specimen  of  organization  ;  the  most  refined 
brute  ! 

If,  however,  the  spiritual  and  divine  aspirations  of  the 
soul  predominate,  if  there  be  that  hungering  and  thirsting 
after  the  True  and  the  Eternal,  which  is  the  legitimate 
craving  of  the  spirit,  its  appropriate  aliment  shall,  also,  be 
administered  to  it.  Truth  it  shall  find.  On  truth  it  shall 
feed  and  grow  strong  and  flourish  ;  ever  expanding,  ever 
feasting,  ever  craving,  ever  supplied.  For,  He,  who  careth 
for  the  sparrows,  will  much  more  care  for  us ;  and  the 
fire,  which  His  own  breath  kindled,  He  will  not  suffer  to 
expire. 

It  is,  certainly,  true,  that  in  that  phasis  of  the  phe- 
nomenon in  question,  which  has  exclusive  reference  to 
the  physical  wants,  there  is,  still,  much  that  is  valuable. 
Coxcombry  is  far  from  being  the  only  thing  it  presents 
to  us.  It  is  indicative  that  much  is  known  ;  that  there 
is,  really,  much  science  extant.  It  is  indicative  of  this, 
I  say.  For,  that  popular  form,  in  which  practical  results 
are  exhibited ;  and  in  which  science  is,  doubtless,  abun- 
dantly talked  about,  is  far  from  presenting  science  itself. 
It  bears  much  ^he  same  relation  to  science,  that  rays  of 
light,  which  find  their  way  through  crevices  into  a  dark 
place,  bear  to  the  sun  ;  manifesting  themselves  and  indi- 
cating it,  through  the  humble  and  accidental  agency  of 
whatever  dust  happens  to  be  floating ;  or,  perhaps,  it  may 
be  more  justly  represented,  as  the  reflection  of  an  object 
from  innumerable,  imperfect,  wavy  mirrors — presenting 
only  parts  and  sections,  and  these  monstrously  distorted 
and  blended  together :  or,  more  accurately  still ;  if  the 


12 

clear  presentation  of  the  essential  principles  of  a  science 
be  said  to  have  a  unity,  such  as  a  painter  of  genius  gives 
to  his  landscape,  which  he  makes  a  whole  in  itself,  with 
no  apparent  dependencies,  or  relations  to  any  thing  not 
contained  in  the  picture  ;  the  popular  mode  of  presenting 
the  same,  would  be  like  the  work  of  the  copyist,  who 
gives  us  only  a  section,  abruptly  cut  off  on  all  sides  from 
something  else  on  which  it  depends,  and  without  which 
it  can  have  no  appearance  of  unity. 

The  literary  production  of  a  time  being  given,  the 
problem  is  easy,  to  determine  the  prevailing  demand ;  and, 
vice  versa,  the  demand  being  given,  it  is  easy  to  deter- 
mine the  literary  production.  For,  the  current  literature 
is  always  adapted  to  supply  the  prevailing  demand. 
Whether  this  holds  good  at  the  present  time,  we  shall 
soon  see.  It  requires  no  very  studious  observation  to  per- 
ceive, that  the  demand,  at  present,  is  not  for  instruction, 
but  for  something  to  induce  the  belief,  that  no  instruction 
is  needed  ;  not  for  the  opening  up  of  the  deep  fountains 
of  truth,  but  for  something  to  limit  the  thoughts  to  what 
lies,  at  the  moment,  under  the  eye  ;  not  for  the  unfold- 
ing and  strengthening  of  the  higher  powers,  by  their 
proper  exercise,  but  for  that,  which,  leaving  them  unem- 
ployed, will  cause  us  to  forget,  that  any  such  powers  are 
in  us,  or,  that  within  us,  or  without  us,  is  any  thing  call- 
ing for  their  exercise.  Nature  is  eviscerated  ;  and  man 
too.  There  is  no  inward  to  either.  Both,  like  some 
kinds  of  zoophytes,  may  be  turned  inside  out  and  back 
again,  without  detriment  or  apparent  change.  The  facil- 
ity, for  instance,  with  which  the  mysteries  of  the  head 
and  heart  are  disposed  of,  by  a  catalogue  of  faculties,  and 


13 

a  few  cant  phrases,  about  animal  organism,  would  be 
laughable  enough,  were  it  not  to  sport  over  the  profana- 
tion of  the  spiritual  being  of  man  ! 

The  literary  demand  being  such  as  I  have  specified 
above,  the  next  inquiry  is,  How  is  it  supplied?  The 
wants  and  passions,  which  seek  gratification  and  supply 
in  science  and  literature,  may  be  reduced  to  two — the 
Want  of  Instruction,  and  the  Passion  for  Amusement. 
And,  according  to  this  division,  literary  production  may 
be  divided  into  three  kinds.  That  the  object  of  which 
is,  1st,  Instruction  ;  2d,  Amusement ;  and  3d,  to  combine 
in  one,  Instruction  and  Amusement. 

Let  us  see  how  the  first  object  is  accomplished,  in 
common  discourse. 

It  is  necessary  to  remark  here,  that  just  Discourse  may 
be  likened  to  a  perfect  organism  ;  and,  that,  like  every 
other  organic  structure,  it  must  have  its  developement, 
through  a  process  of  growth.  There  is,  therefore,  neces- 
sarily presupposed,  a  principle  of  Life.  An  organism  can- 
not be  produced  without  Life.  The  Life  of  Discourse, 
considered  as  organic,  is  Truth  ;  for,  Truth  is  vital.  It  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  say,  that,  in  speaking  of  the  Truth 
of  Discourse,  I  do  not  refer  to  the  veracity  of  individ- 
ual statements.  Every  proposition  may  be  true,  and  still 
the  discourse  not  contain  the  Truth,  in  the  higher  and 
only  legitimate  sense.  The  argument  may  be  conducted 
logically,  and  the  premises  may  be  true.  But,  the  rela- 
tion of  these  to  each  other,  may  be  arbitrary  ;  and  the 
whole  entirely  dependent  on  the  purpose  of  the  writer, 
both  in  its  form  and  import.  Here,  no  principle,  one 
and  necessary,  runs  through  it,  which,  in  itself,  deter- 


14 

mines  the  form  of  its  developement ;  i.  e.  it  is  not  or- 
ganic. It  is,  in  all  respects,  artificial,  and  it  is  an  abuse 
of  terms,  to  speak  of  its  Truth.  Truth  is  vital,  and  can- 
not be  predicated  of  the  artificial  and  arbitrary.  Truth, 
most  certainly,  is  never  illogical ;  but  an  artificial  form  of 
logic  is  not,  necessarily,  true.  A  living  thing  is  vital  in 
every  part.  Every  member  manifests  it,  as  evidently  as 
the  whole  organism.  It  is  "  entire  in  each,  yet,  compre- 
hending all." 

But  this  syllogistic  discourse — where  would  you  look 
for  its  vitality,  that  is,  for  its  Truth  ?  Why,  in  the  prem- 
ises.— If  there  be  Truth  there,  it  is  supposed  there  may 
be  Truth  in  the  conclusion  ;  if  there  be  Life  there,  Life 
in  the  conclusion.  Here,  the  Truth  and  the  Life  are  in- 
ferred, not  perceived ;  imagined,  not  felt ;  depending,  too, 
on  conditions,  which  are  themselves  questionable, — they 
may  be  true,  and  they  may  be  false.  So,  then,  the  very 
possibility  of  its  Truth  is  contingent.  It  is,  therefore, 
destitute  of  any  guiding  principle,  and,  of  course,  essen- 
tially lifeless.  For,  in  living  things,  the  principle  to  be 
developed  is  not  contingent  ;  the  contingency  pertains 
only  to  the  actual  development.  If  it  is  developed  at  all, 
its  form  is  predetermined  ;  and  that,  not  by  accident,  nor 
by  will,  but  by  a  necessity  of  its  nature  ;  by  the  law  of 
its  kind.  The  form,  then,  of  ils  development  is  not  con- 
tingent, but  only  the  fact,  whether  it  shall  be  developed 
at  all,  or  not.  Thus  it  is,  also,  in  Discourse,  if  it  con- 
tain any  thing  vital,  any  thing  that  will  satisfy  the  soul. 
or  minister  strength  and  light  to  the  mind.  It  will  spring 
up  out  of  some  central  and  pervading  principle  ;  and,  if 
the  necessary  materials  be  submitted  to  its  action,  it  will 


15 

form   for   itself  a   body   and   a  dress,    such   as  shall  truly 
represent  its  character,   and  its  import. 

I  am  now  ready  to  examine  that  kind  of  discourse, 
whose  professed  aim  is  to  instruct,  and  which  I  shall  sup- 
pose to  be  addressed  to  that  numerous  class,  that  I 
have  already  mentioned,  as  seeking  instruction,  either  be- 
cause it  is  fashionable  to  do  so ;  or,  because  they  are 
afraid  of  being  left  in  the  rear,  in  the  rapid  '  progress  of 
the  species,'  of  which  they  hear  so  much ;  or,  out  of  rev- 
erence for  the  '  traditions  of  the  elders  ;'  inclined  thereto, 
also,  by  a  sense  of  want,  more  or  less  distinct.  The 
greater  the  show  of  learning,  and  the  formality  of  knowl- 
edge exhibited,  the  better.  The  lecturer  will  be  listened 
to  with  small  hope,  but  great  impatience,  on  any  other 
condition.  Of  course,  he  must  talk  in  syllogisms.  He 
lays  down  some  proposition,  in  which  he  or  his  audience 
are,  in  some  way,  interested  ;  or,  it  may  be,  at  random, 
something  on  which  discourse  may  be  founded.  He  be- 
gins to  look  about  him  for  means  to  establish  it.  He 
endeavors  to  plant  himself  on  some  ground  which  will 
gain  assent,  and  on  which  he  can  build  an  argument,  to 
sustain  the  proposition  with  which  he  commenced.  Let 
us  see  what  his  condition  now  is.  He  has  his  ground, 
and  his  conclusion  is  before  him.  The  question  now  is, 
how  he  is  to  arrive  at  it.  He  must,  in  some  way,  fill 
up  the  vacancy  that  yawns,  so  threateningly,  between  his 
premiss  and  conclusion,  to  save  the  necessity  of  leaping 
the  chasm. 

Precisely  here,  lies  the  Mion  in  the  way,'  to  our  logi- 
cian. Here,  he  must  bestir  himself  to  get  somewhat  where- 
with to  build  him  up  a  middle  ground.  He  must  find  his 


16 

stepping-stones ;  and,  ten  to  one,  he  will  be  obliged, 
tacitly,  to  shift  his  original  position,  before  he  can  get 
his  relations  so  constituted,  as  to  make  his  bridge,  at  all 
constructible.  But,  allow  his  positions  to  be  finally  de- 
termined, and  the  chasm  filled  with — no  matter  what — 
good  solid  mason-work,  wood,  hay  or  stubble  ;  and  he 
steps  in  triumph  to  his  conclusion. 

Now,  to  what  does  all  this  amount  ?  His  conclusion 
may  be  true,  or  it  may  be  false ;  but,  in  either  case, 
independent  of  the  argument  which  he  has  constructed 
with  so  much  labor;  for  it  was,  already,  a  forgone  con- 
clusion. The  necessary  connexion  and  dependence ;  the 
unity  and  vital  organism  of  just  discourse — there  is  noth- 
ing of  these  here.  It  is  perfectly  idle  and  unmeaning, 
and  can  answer  no  other  purpose,  either  by  way  of 
profit  or  amusement,  unless,  perhaps,  to  furnish  grown-up 
men  the  recreation  which  children  find  in  building  baby- 
houses. 

Discourse  of  this  kind,  in  its  highest  forms  cannot,  so 
much,  be  said  to  be  the  Truth,  or,  to  contain  within 
itself  the  Truth,  as  to  be  an  instrument,  with  which  it 
may  be  sought  after.  The  Truth  is  contemplated,  as  lying 
at  the  goal ;  and,  that,  the  path,  in  which  we  must  run, 
.o  win  it.  But  this  is  not  Discourse,  nor  the  object  of 
Discourse.  It  is  the  process  of  a  mind  in  doubt ;  the 
groping  of  a  mind  in  darkness ;  or,  at  best,  the  systematic 
searching  of  a  mind  inquisitive.  This  process  must  pre- 
cede Discourse,  inasmuch  as  Discourse  is  not  the  inquisi- 
tion after  Truth,  but  the  setting  forth  of  Truth  when 
found.  The  investigation  is  supposed  to  have  been  ac- 
complished ;  and  it  only  remains,  that  the  Truth  be  held 


17 

up  before  us,  in  all  its  beautiful  proportions;  with  its 
perfect  symmetry,  unity  and  lineaments  of  light;  a  living, 
breathing  organism,  clothed  with  freshness  and  beauty,  and 
speaking  to  the  heart,  like  the  gentle  tones  of  friendship. 

We  have  said,  that  the   object  of  this  species  of  Dis- 
course is,   to  instruct ;    but,    that   this  is  its  tendency,    we 
ha*e  not  said,   and  scarcely  need  take  the  pains  to  deny. 
For,  what  is  it?      Propositions   strung   together,    or,  more 
truly,  stuck  together,  by  the  ever  ready  cement  of  'buts,' 
£ands,'  and  '  therefores/ — for,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
a  continuity  sufficient  to  constitute   the  thread,   on   which 
to  string  them  ; — stuck    together   by   rule,    (for   this  is  all 
they    claim,)    as    a    carpenter    builds    a    house — requiring, 
however,  not  the  half  of  his  knowledge,    or  the   tithe  of 
his    skill.      But    the   carpenter   is   the   actual  model;    for, 
like  him,  the  discourser  cuts  and  fits  his  timber,  according 
to  rules,    the    grounds  of  which    it   concerns   not   him    to 
understand,  with  little  labor,   beyond  that  of  hacking  and 
hewing, — materials   being   ever   ready    at   his   hands ;    for, 
the  world  is  full   of  books,   as  the  forest  is  of  trees,  and 
the  market  of  lumber.       And  this  is  done  to  instruct  us  ; 
to  build  us  up  inwardly — to  administer  food  to  our  intel- 
lect ;  to  nourish  our  souls ;  to  kindle  the  imagination,  and 
awaken,    to    energetic  action,   the   living,    but    slumbering 
world    within.       But,    alas !    this    inner    world   cannot   be 
kindled,  like  a  smouldering  fire,  by  a  basket  of  chips  and 
a  puff  of  wind  !      This   inner  world  is  a  world  of  spirits, 
which  feed  on  thoughts,   full  of   Truth  and  living  energy. 
And  thought,  alone,  can  kindle  thought ;  and  Truth,  alone, 
can  waken  Truth, — not  veracity,  not  fact,  but  Truth  vital ; 


Truth  that  wakes, 


To  perish  never."  * 

This  is  the  bread  for  which  the  soul  is  pining,  and 
such  are  the  husks,  with  which  its  calls  are  answered. 
And  how  are  they  received  ?  For  the  most  part,  as  the 
very  staff  of  intellectual  life.  The  purveyors  of  such  fare 
are  regarded  as  giants  on  the  earth  ;  or,  even,  as  gods 
come  down  in  the  likeness  of  men.f  Though  this  at  first 
seems  strange  ;  though  we  wonder  that  the  difference  be- 
tween an  egg  and  a  stone,  is  not  more  readily  perceived, 
at  second  thought,  our  wonder  is  at  an  end ;  for,  lo !  the 
learning,  the  art,  the  logic,  the  parade !  The  pretension 
is  too  high,  and  on  too  lofty  themes,  for  vulgar  censure. 
On  the  contrary,  it  calls  forth  applause, — loud  and  long 
continued. 

Thus,  men  will  hear  with  applause,  those  loud  sounds, 
which  "  reverb  hollowness."  J  And  yet,  men  do  always 
hear  and  heed  the  true  earnest  word,  which  comes  up 
fresh  and  living  from  the  depths  of  the  human  spirit. 
And  herein  is  no  contradiction.  From  both  is  sought  the 
supply  of  a  vital  want.  "  But  this  is  heavenly,  that  an 
empty  dream. "||  The  vociferous  applause  with  which  the 
one  is  received,  is  but  the  spontaneous  resource,  of  the 
foolish  heart,  to  stifle  the  pang  of  disappointment.  But, 
when  the  deep  wants  of  the  soul  are  made  known,  by 
the  spirit's  deep  earnest  voice — telling  of  wants  in  the 
foundations  of  humanity — strugglings  and  longings  and 
unrest,  neither  wind,  nor  words,  nor  thunders  shall  put  it 
to  silence.  But,  supply  its  wants ; — give  it  its  food ;  utter 
the  truths  for  which  it  hungers,  and  there  shall  come 

*  Wordsworth,    t  Acts  14,  11.     J  King  Lear.     ||  Paradise  Lost,  VII.  39. 


19 

over  it  a  breathing  calm  ;  a  silent-working,  even-moving 
power  shall  live  in  it, — invincible,  sublime,  like  the  move- 
ment of  a  Universe,  with  its  harmonious,  spheral  music — 
not  unheard  of  angels !  But,  look  not  for  applause.  Thou 
shall  behold  deeds.  Applause  is  shallow  and  loud.  It  is 
an  echo.  It  comes  not  from  the  heart.  It  is  thrown  off 
from  the  surface.  It  is  the  salute,  the  "  lo  !  here  am  I," 
of  vanity  and  conceitedness.  It  is  not  the  response,  given 
from  the  depths  of  the  infinite  heart,  to  the  infinite  and 
eternal  truth,  which  asks  to  come  into  it,  and  abide  with 
it,  and  live  in  it,  and  work  in  it.  It  is  the  clamorous 
welcome  which  ignorance  and  wretchedness  give  to  the 
muttered  charm,  that  persuades  them  they  are  wise,  and 
rich,  and  increased  with  goods,  and  in  need  of  nothing.* 

He,  that  seeketh,  findeth ;  and  finds,  too,  what  he 
seeks,  whether  it  be  fuel  for  foolish  vanity,  or  food  for 
the  immortal  spirit.  No  wonder,  then,  that  the  babbling 
quack,  in  the  semblance  of  'beautiful  Apollo,'  floats  heav- 
enward, through  specific  lightness,  on  the  breath  of  pop- 
ular applause;  for  he  has  taught  folly  and  cowardice, 
the  words  of  wisdom  and  valor;  or,  hath  clothed  them, 
like  the  ancient  Grecian  dames,  in  Minerva's  panoply, 
with  her  helmet  and  gorgon-shield,  and  omitted  the  sug- 
gestion of  the  owl,  that  a  trifle  was  yet  wanting — a  Pal- 
las Athene  within,  f 

But,  men  do  not  continue,  always,  in  this  mistake. 
They  successively  pass  out — and  others  occupy  their 
place,  to  run  the  same  idle  round.  For,  at  length,  hu- 
man instinct  interposes,  and  leads  them,  in  their  lack  of 

*  Rev.  in,  17.  t  Herder's  Pararnythien. 


20 

knowledge.  However  highly  applauded,  and  with  how- 
ever high  hopes  regarded,  time  forces  upon  them  the  con- 
viction, that,  for  them,  this  dainty  fare  is  entirely  innutri- 
tious.  Not  doubting  in  the  least  its  profound  wisdom, 
they  modestly  suppose,  that,  being  infants  in  knowledge, 
this  is  that  strong  meat,  which  they  have  neither  teeth  to 
masticate,  nor  vigor  to  digest.  They  leave  the  sage  to 
the  undisturbed  privacy  of  his  own  meditations ;  to  feast 
his  own  soul  upon  the  syllogisms  he  had  prepared,  for 
the  nourishment  of  his  feebler  brethren.  But,  he  soon 
finds  it  bread,  which  it  is,  by  no  means,  pleasant  to  eat 
in  secret.  Truly,  he  findeth  it  not  good  to  'eat  his  mor- 
sel alone.'  He  striveth  in  his  heart  to  devise  some 
finery,  with  which  to  clothe  the  nakedness  of  his  logic, 
and  render  it  attractive.  Fancy,  saith  he  to  himself, 
Fancy,  as  they  call  her,  I  have  seen  the  adored  goddess 
of  admiring  multitudes.  I  will  bethink  me,  how  I  may 
call  in  her  aid,  and  dress  my  discourse  in  her  drapery. 
Spirit  of  Flaccus,  listen ! 

Qui  variare  cupit  rem  prodigaliter  unam, 
Delphinum  silvis  appingit,  fluctibus  aprum.  * 

For,  roses  are  really  beginning  to  spring  up  among  the 
chips  of  the  logic  he  is  chopping ;  there  is  song  of  birds 
in  the  naked  branches  of  the  lifeless  trees,  and  there 
seem  to  sigh  soft  breezes  through  them,  till  their  dead 
twigs  rattle  again. 

This  sounds,  I  know,  like  caricature.  But.  it  is  not 
such.  I  wish  it  were.  But,  bethink  you.  Is  it  not  so  ? 
Every  body  is,  or  ought  to  be,  charmed  with  the  glow 
and  freshness  of  the  imagery,  which  accompanies  the  ex- 

*  Ep.  ad  Pisones. 


21 

pression  of  deep  and  heart-felt  truths  ;  but,  the  many  are 
even  more  delighted  with  their  imitations  or  counterfeits, 
on  account  of  their  greater  profusion.  It  is,  to  them,  a 
wilderness  of  charms.  Can  it  be  possible,  then,  .that  such 
counterfeits  should  not  abound,  and  superabound?  An 
artificial  rose,  to  the  many,  is  as  beautiful,  and  far  more 
wonderful,  than  one  that  is  living  on  the  tree.  It  would 
be  strange,  indeed,  if  wants  and  tastes  of  this  description 
should  not  be  gratified,  when  it  can  be  done  so  cheaply. 
Tiiey  are  gratified.  They  have  always  been,  and  will  al- 
ways be.  The  imposture  would  be,  perhaps,  too  gross,  if 
the  flowers  were  flung  together  without  the  semblance  of 
a  bush,  on  which  to  hang  them  ;  and,  consequently,  dis- 
course of  this  kind  holds  out  the  pretence  of  a  subject 
which  it  would  treat,  or  an  argument  it  would  conduct. 
This  is  enough.  It  constitutes  a  kind  oC  centre,  around 
which  the  writer  can  revolve ;  and  to  which,  from  the 
excursions  of  his  fancy,  he  can  return,  as  to  a  home,  and 
deposite  the  collections  he  has  made.  And,  from  this, 
we  are  expected  to  derive  pleasure.  Our  sense  of  beauty, 
our  taste  is  here  to  find  gratification  !  Charming  indeed ! 
It  is  like  a  tree  covered,  all  over,  with  flowers,  from  the 
great  yellow  sun-flower,  that  stares  all  day  at  the  sun,  to 
the  violet  that  hides  beneath  its  shadow. 

Spcctatura  admissi  risum  teneatis,  amici  ?  * 

In  comparison  with  this  gorgeous  tree,  how  insignificant 
were  the  modest  rose-bush  nature  made,  with  its  slender 
stalks  and  graceful  branches,  covered  with  beautiful  green 
leaves,  with,  here  and  there,  a  full  blown  rose,  blushing 
as  if  at  its  own  conspicuousness,  whilst  the  coy,  half- 

'  Ep.  ad  1'isones,  I,    ,'>. 


22 

opening  buds  are  hiding  beneath  the  leaves.  This  simple, 
and  necessary  up-springing,  and  unfolding  of  nature,  with 
its  true  and  modest  beauty,  is  put  quite  in  the  shade, 
whilst  such  unchaste  tawdriness  is  set  up,  and  received, 
as  the  idol  of  vulgar  worship  ! 

This  is  the  second  species  of  discourse,  whose  object  is 
to  amuse  and  please.  And  successful  enough  it  is,  for  a 
time.  But,  it  soon  arrives  at  its  highest  flow.  The  ap- 
plause, with  which  it  is  at  first  received,  soon  dies  away. 
That  stern  regulator,  the  absolute  want  of  our  intellectual 
and  spiritual  soul,  soon  rectifies  the  taste,  and  teaches  us 
that  pleasure  lies,  only,  in  the  life-giving  and  true  ;  and, 
that  artificial  rainbows,  made  to  order,  at  so  much  per 
yard,  are,  in  the  end,  as  little  calculated  to  please  the 
eye,  as  painted  rain-drops  to  slake  the  thirst. 

And,  in  this  lives  an  abiding  ground  of  hope,  and 
cheerful  confidence.  For,  it  teaches  us,  that  every  human 
heart,  has  those  depths,  and  living  powers  in  it,  the 
healthful  action  of  which  is  the  true  life  and  well-being 
of  the  soul.  And,  in  none,  we  hope,  are  they  for  ever 
dorman  ;  and  no  heart,  we  hope,  is  wholly  closed. 
Light,  though  in  rays  feeble  and  scattered,  may  shine 
in  upon  it,  and  it  shall  awake,  for,  '  it  is  not  dead,  but 
sleepeth.'  *  Then,  what  though  ignes  fatui  innumerable 
shine  and  mislead ;  there  is,  still,  within,  the  t(  true  light 
which  lighteth  every  man  that  cometh  into  the  world  ;"f 
and  true  light,  more  or  less,  is  shining  from  without;  and 
hearts  are  open  ;  and  the  light  shall  quicken  them  ;  and, 
though  for  a  time  deceived,  they  shall  at  last  be  unde- 
ceived ;  and  this  tribulation  shall  have  wrought  in  them 

*  Malth.  \x,  24.  t  John  i.  9.  t  Rom.  v.  4. 


23 

experience;|  and  this  experience  new  hope;  and  the 
hope  boldness  and  courage ;  and  to  courage  all  doors  are 
open,  and  all  ways  plain.  Deception  and  vain  labor  are 
portions  of  the  lot  of  all  men.  Passion  grows  strong  and 
prevails,  and  takes  to  itself  the  name  of  reason  ;  and 
clamor  and  noise  and  chaotic  confusion  arise,  out  of 
which  shall  come  order,  and  quietness  and  even-flowing, 
energetic  life.  The  feeling  of  wants,  that  lie  deeper 
and  farther  inward  than  the  sensual  appetites,  must  be 
supplied,  or  suppressed  ;  and  hence  arise  a  struggle  and 
conflict  between  the  antagonist  principles  of  our  being. 
Firm  peace,  and  healthful,  quiet  energy  of  soul,  is  the 
fruit  of  victory,  and  of  victory  only.  Therefore,  though 
attended  with  "  a  troubled  sea  of  noises  and  hoarse  dis- 
putes ;"  the  contest,  with  its  hubbub  and  vain  clamor,  is 
the  door  to  quietness  and  clear  intelligence.  Pedantry 
and  pretension  ;  quackery  and  imposture,  shall,  in  spite 
of  themselves,  conduct  to  their  own  exposure  and  extinc- 
tion. For,  a  higher  sway  than  ours  guides  all  affairs, 
causing  even  the  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him  ;  and  ma- 
king folly  itself,  the  guide  to  wisdom  ! 

Hooker  characterized  his  own  times  as  "  full  of  tongue 
and  weak  of  brain ;"  *  and  Luther  said,  to  the  same 
effect,  of  the  preachers  and  scholars  of  his  day :  "  If  they 
were  not  permitted  to  prate  and  chatter  about  it,  they 
would  burst  with  the  greatness  of  their  art  and  science, 
so  hot  and  eager  are  they  to  teach."  f  But  the  noise 
and  dust  having  subsided,  there  is  left  us,  of  those  very 
times,  works  which  men  will  not  "  willingly  let  die." 
Noise  and  smoke  causeless  do  not  come.  There  is  a 

*  Coleridge's  Lit.  Bio.,  chap.  ix.       t  Krummacher's  Flying  Roll. 


24 

force,  at  bottom,  which  will,  ultimately,  work  itself  clear, 
and  produce  good  and  substantial  fruits.  There  is  force 
somewhere,  or  no  foam  and  dust  would  rise;  but,  there 
is  little  force  in  the  foam  and  dust  themselves.  And  the 
immediate  instruments  are  only  instruments,  working  with- 
out knowing  what  they  do ;  like  puppets  dancing  and 
swinging  their  arms,  while  far  behind  resides  the  force 
that  works  the  wires.  All  wonder  bestowed  upon  them 
is  most  certainly  foolish  wonder.  But,  there  is  no  ground 
for  discouragement,  or  for  any  but  good  hopes,  although 
ignorance  and  pretension  stand  in  high  places,  and  vainly 
babble  concerning  things  beautiful  and  profound.  This 
uproar  comes,  only,  from  the  troubling  of  the  stream ; 
the  foam  and  roar  will  not  continue  always  ;  the  smooth 
plain  lies  below,  along  which  it  shall  soon  flow,  quietly 
but  strongly,  murmuring  sweet  music.  And,  for  the  am- 
bitious rainbows,  painted  in  the  mists  above,  there  shall 
be  the  sweet  reflection  of  earth  and  heaven  from  its  calm 
bosom. 

But,  there  is  a  species  of  Discourse,  on  scientific  sub- 
jects, of  a  higher  order  than  those  I  have  considered, 
which  it  would  be  unjust  to  pass  unnoticed.  It  is  the 
process  of  what  is  called  demonstration  •  where  the  re- 
sult of  the  demonstration  is  supposed  to  be  true,  not 
only  for  the  reasons  given,  but  per  se,  independently  of 
any  reasons  given — a  truth  of  the  pure  reason.  Although 
the  proposition  is  true  in  itself,  and  may  be  seen  to  be 
so ;  nevertheless,  the  purposes  of  science  require  that  it 
should  be  demonstrated.  This,  in  ordinary  cases,  and, 
perhaps,  in  every  case,  may  be  accomplished  in  a  variety 


25 

of  ways,  and  all  perfectly  conclusive.  It  is  obvious,  then, 
that  no  one  of  these  modes  is  a  necessary  mode ;  for, 
either  of  the  others  might  have  been  pursued,  with  pre- 
cisely the  same  result. 

Let  the  proposition,  for  the  sake  of  illustration,  be  one 
of  Geometry.  Suppose  that  I  adopt  some  one  of  the 
methods,  and  go  through  with  the  demonstration  before 
you.  You  would  say  that  the  proposition  was  true  ;  but, 
it  would  be  so,  to  your  minds,  in  the  light  of  my  argu- 
ment, not  from  any  necessity  in  the  terms  of  the  propo- 
sition itself.  When  you  are  thinking  of  the  truth  of  the 
proposition,  on  what  are  your  minds  occupied  ?  Is  it  not 
on  the  steps  of  my  demonstration  ?  The  truth  of  the 
proposition,  then,  resolves  itself  into  the  correctness  of  the 
process  by  which  it  is  proved.  Now,  let  me  take  another 
process,  equally  intelligible,  and  arrive  at  the  same  result. 
You  see  it  is  correct,  and  say,  as  before,  "  The  proposi- 
tion is  true."  When  you  contemplate  the  truth  of  the 
proposition  now,  you  think  of  the  argument  as  before  ; 
but  the  argument  is  not  the  same  as  before  ;  then  your 
notion  of  the  truth  of  the  proposition  is  not  the  same  as 
before.  Its  truth,  however,  is,  doubtless,  the  same  as 
before,  and  your  notion  of  it,  then,  and  now,  very  inad- 
equate. After  a  few  processes  of  this  kind,  you  would 
be  convinced  that  the  Truth,  which,  at  the  first  trial,  you 
supposed  you  had  found,  is  still  at  the  bottom  of  the 
well ;  and  your  demonstrations  have  only  proved  that  it 
was  really  there,  but  afford  you  little  aid  in  drawing  it 
up.  You  would  be  convinced  of  the  correctness  of  the 
statement,  I  have  already  made,  that  every  proposition 
may  be  true,  and  the  conclusion  true,  and,  still,  the  Dis- 


26 

course  not  contain  the  Truth.  The  truth  of  a  proposi- 
tion, then,  is  not  shown  by  what  is  called  its  demonstra- 
tion. It  is  only  inferred.  It  is  not  comprehended  and 
seen  as  by  an  intuition.  It  is  not  presented  to  us  in 
the  light  and  unity  of  an  Idea. 

The  advantage  of  this  kind  of  Discourse,  to  audiences 
or  to  individuals  ordinarily,  I  am  persuaded,  is  over-esti- 
mated ;  even  in  those  rare  cases,  where  the  steps  of  the 
process  are  followed.  For,  the  spirit  and  power  of  the 
matter  is  not  apprehended.  A  lifeless  form  is  substituted 
and  mistaken  for  it ;  and,  therefore,  the  only  good  which 
it  can  confer  upon  the  mind  is  utterly  lost. 

Science,  certainly,  is  good.  No  one  will  understand 
me  as  questioning  that.  But  good  for  what  ? — a  question 
to  which  the  bustle  of  these  boastful  days  contains  no 
answer.  Vague  notions  of  mastery  over  nature,  it  does 
indeed  contain ;  and  these,  for  the  most  part,  like  that  of 
mastery  over  a  horse  ;  breaking  her  in,  as  it  were,  ma- 
king her  work  for  us; — thus  saving  us  hand-labor.  But, 
that  the  conquest  of  man  over  nature  is  knowing  nature, 
enters  not  into  its  thoughts.  Sciences  are  but  steps  and 
doors  to  insight  into  nature.  Steps  are  good  for  nothing 
in  themselves.  Their  value  is  in  helping  us  up  to  some- 
thing above  themselves.  Doors  are  good  for  nothing  but 
to  open  up  a  passage  for  us  to  something  beyond.  We 
must  climb  above  the  former,  and  go  through  the  latter, 
leaving  them  both  behind.  They  are  a  kind  of  trans- 
parency, through  which  beam  forth,  upon  our  vision, 
glimpses  of  the  glory  of  an  unseen  world ;  or,  rather, 
they  are  the  alphabet  of  the  language  in  which  men  may 


27 

write  out  the  import  and  meaning  of  the  world's  phe- 
nomena; the  splendid,  illuminated  capitals  into  which  we 
translate  the  great  Book  of  Nature ;  brilliant  and  dazzling 
to  many  an  eye,  but  rightly  read  by  few. 

But,  what  avails  the  Alphabet,  though  in  letters  of 
light  and  gold,  if  we  know  not  how  to  read  them  ?  if  we 
are  ignorant,  not  only  of  the  language  of  which  they  are 
the  symbols,  but  even  that  they  are  the  symbols  of  any 
language  at  all  ?  Yet,  to  how  many,  is  it  the  farthest 
reach  of  insight,  and  the  limit  of  their  thoughts,  to  con- 
struct, with  all  their  accidental  curves  and  flourishes,  these 
symbols,  and  give  them  names ;  converting  them,  in  this 
way,  into  childish  toys,  with  no  other  use  or  result,  than 
to  add  new  plumes  to  the  cap  of  vanity ! 

The  question  still  recurs,  what,  then,  is  science  good 
for?  what,  besides  its  merely  temporal  and  material  ends? 
Its  uses  for  the  body  are  manifest  enough.  Has  it  uses, 
also,  for  the  mind  ?  If  so,  what  are  they  ?  I  have  already 
said  that  sciences  are  but  steps  and  doors  to  insight  into 
nature.  Through  them  it  is  we  are  to  arrive  at  the  se- 
cret of  her  inner  life,  and  hold  communion  with  her 
spirit.  But,  wherein  is  such  insight  and  communion 
needful  for  man  ?  the  question  of  questions  here,  while 
we  are  discussing,  for  a  moment,  the  cui  bono  of  science. 

The  end  and  duty  of  man  is,  doubtless,  the  full  devel- 
opement  of  his  powers,  and  the  perfection  of  his  being. 
And  all  the  powers  of  man  are  to  be  developed  by  exer- 
cise, if  developed  at  all.  The  powers  of  cognition  are  to 
be  developed  by  knowing.  And  an  ample  field  has  been 
prepared  for  us,  by  our  infinitely  wise  and  good  Father, 
in  which  to  exercise  these  powers,  and  all  our  powers. 


28 

He  has  spread  out  above  us  and  around  us  the  wondrous 
and  beautiful  world,  and  the  first  voice  of  God  that  fell 
upon  the  ear  of  new-created  man,  contained  the  com- 
mand, "  Subdue  it,  and  have  dominion  over  every  living 
thing  that  moveth  in  it."*  This  we  are  to  do  by  know- 
ing it.  And,  in  order  to  know  it,  we  must  in  a  manner 
identify  ourselves  with  it.  And  there  is  no  external  pow- 
er, which  has  not  within  the  soul  of  man  its  correlative. 
And  there  is  nothing  within  us,  no  power,  no  faculty, 
which  does  not  find  and  develop  itself  by  something 
without  us.  So  that  the  mind  is  adapted  to  the  external 
world,  and  the  external  world  is  adapted  to  the  mind. 
Thus,  in  order  fully  to  develop  mind,  in  order  fully  to 
develop  man,  the  laws  and  powers  of  the  outer  world 
must  all  be  understood.  We  must  know  the  agency 
which  is  at  work,  arid  the  laws  by  which  it  works,  in 
the  shaping  of  a  crystal  ;  the  forming  of  a  rain-drop,  or 
a  planet ;  in  the  organization  of  vegetable  and  animal 
forms  ; — all  the  phenomena  of  Nature  must  be  contem- 
plated in  the  light  of  the  Idea  which  they  are  formed  to 
realize ;  in  the  light  of  the  law  by  which  that  Idea  is 
developed.  AH  these  laws,  all  these  Ideas  are  for  the 
mind,  and  must  be  in  the  mind  and  of  the  mind.  They 
must  be  ours.  They  must  be  identified  with  us.  For,  does 
not  every  fundamental  principle,  does  not  every  absolute 
truth,  the  moment  it  is  apprehended  by  any  mind,  be- 
come, for  that  mind,  a  necessary  truth  ? — a  truth  of  rea- 
son ? — Can  we  distinguish  it  from  our  self-consciousness  ? 
When  we  speak  of  our  mind,  is  not  this  included  ? — is 
not  all,  we  are  truly  said  to  know,  included  ?  If  so,  it 

''Genesis  k    28. 


29 

helps  to  constitute  our  developed  mind  ;  and  thus  becomes 
a  part  of  our  conscious  self. 

The  metaphor  cannot  be  misunderstood,  when  we  call 
the  development  of  mind  and  heart  a  growth.  This  is 
the  usual  metaphor.  We  often  speak  of  growth  in  knowl- 
edge, of  growth  in  wisdom.  But  what  is  implied  in 
growth  ?  First,  a  vital  principle,  including  the  idea  of  a 
power ;  second,  the  object  on  which  this  vital  power  is  to 
act ;  and  third,  the  process  of  appropriation  and  assimila- 
tion. But,  what  is  the  aliment  by  which  the  mind  grows? 
Evidently,  truth, — appropriated  and  assimilated  by  know- 
ing it.  But  what  is  knowing  ?  When  may  we  properly 
be  said  to  know  ?  We  cannot,  for  example,  be  said  to 
know  a  tree,  though  we  may  have  taken  its  dimensions, 
counted  its  limbs,  and  leaves,  and  roots,  or  determined 
its  class,  order  and  genus.  We  must  discover  its  law  of 
growth  ;  that,  whereby  lifeless,  inert  matter  assumed  such 
and  such  forms,  and  in  such  proportions.  Then  we  may 
-be  said  to  know  the  tree,  or  to  understand  the  tree. 

Thus,  the  apprehension  of  first  principles  is  the  food 
of  the  mind  ;  by  these  the  mind  grows.  But  if  it  grows 
by  means  of  these,  they  must  be  assimilated  and  made 
part  of  itself.  The  world  then,  and  all  there  is  in  it, 
regarded  not  in  their  phenomena,  but  in  their  fundamen- 
tal principles,  must  be  of  us  and  in  us ;  must  constitute 
a  part  of  our  conscious  self.  The  proposition  will  be 
understood  then,  when  I  say  that  in  order  to  subdue  this 
material  world,  and  become  fully  developed  men,  the 
world  must  be  in  us  and  of  us ;  we  must  become  our- 
selves a  world  ;  i.  e.  there  must  be  consciously  within  us 


30 

those   grand   ideas,   the  realization   of  which  the  external 
world  is  designed  to  exhibit. 

Indeed,  man  is  a  microcosm — a  little  world.  And  this 
little  world  of  man  exhibits,  to  the  eye  that  explores  it, 
the  same  phenomena  as  the  great  world.  It  has  its 
steady,  unchangeable,  and  eternal  laws.  It  has  its  sun, 
and  its  stars,  and  even  its  moon ;  its  sunshine  and  its 
clouds ;  its  gentle  breezes,  its  tempests,  its  whirlwinds  and 
its  cairns.  It  has  its  meteoric  flashes,  and  offers,  at  times, 
glimpses  of  the  agency  of  a  Power,  far,  far  beyond  its 
sphere,  mysterious,  inscrutable  and  fearful,  which  bids  the 
still  soul  listen  and  worship  and  adore  !  For,  it  is  the 
soul  of  man  alone  that  unto  man  revealeth  God.  In  the 
Image  of  God  created  He  him  ;  and  only  by  finding  out 
the  true  man  within  can  we  find  that  Image  ;  thus,  only, 
can  we  know  God.  We  may  seek  Him  in  the  whirl- 
wind, but  we  shall  not  find  Him,  unless  by  an  inward 
light ;  we  may  find  power  and  grandeur  and  mystery, 
but  it  is  not  He.  The  light  from  His  own  Image,  within 
us,  must  fall  upon  it,  and  be  reflected  from  it  to  our  own 
soul  again,  or  we  shall  not  find  Him.  We  may  seek 
Him  in  the  sunshine,  and  there  we  may  find  excellence 
and  glory,  but  we  shall  not  find  the  Excellent  Glory,  we 
shall  not  find  Him,  unless  the  light  itself  be  illuminated 
by  the  Light  from  within.  We  may  seek  Him  in  the 
Laws  of  Nature,  and  there  we  may  find  order  and  beau- 
ty, but  it  is  not  He,  unless  the  divine  breath  with  which 
He  has  inspired  us  be  by  us  imbreathed  into  them.  We 
must  find  Him  in  ourselves,  and  then  we  shall  find  Him 
every  where  ;  for,  verily,  "  He  is  not  far  from  every  one 
of  us."  * 

*  Acts  xvii.  27. 


31 

To  this  self-development,  and  consequent  communion 
with  Nature,  and,  if  we  will,  with  the  God  of  Nature, 
science  is,  in  its  own  sphere  and  degree,  instrumental. 
Through  science  we  may  arrive  at  it,  but  we  cannot  find 
it  in  science.  In  science,  is  found  only  that  which  puf- 
feth  up,  that  which  vaunteth  itself — display  and  noise 
and  wind  enough.  Through  science,  but  beyond  it,  is 
found  that  which  buildeth  up,  yet  humbleth, — Life  and 
Power ;  Truth  and  Love ;  *  divine  Music  and  Beauty. 
For  the  sake  of  these  science  is  good,  and  shall  always 
be  mentioned  with  honor.  For,  it  is  through  communion 
with  these,  that  the  man  comes  round  again,  full  circle, 
to  the  joyous  innocency  of  his  childhood ;  to  the  love  and 
wonder  and  unquestioning  faith  with  which  he  reposed  in 
the  bosom  of  Nature,  and  all  was  well  with  him,  though 
he  knew  it  not. 

In  its  agency,  or  rather  instrumentality,  in  thus  bring- 
ing us  home  again  into  Nature's  bosom,  lies  the  true 
value  of  science ;  this  alone  gives  it  an  interest  and  value 
for  the  soul,  and  unites  it  with  the  heart,  bringing  back 
to  us, 

"  The  intelligible  forms  of  ancient  poets, 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  Power,  the  Beauty  and  the  Majesty. 

That  had  her  haunts  in  dale,  or  piny  mountain, 

Or  forest  by  low  stream,  or  pebbly  spring, 

Or  chasms  or  wat'ry  depths."  t 

But,  when  science  brings  us  back  to  this  innocent,  child- 
like joyousness,  this  trustful  faith  and  communion,  it  is 
on  very  different  grounds,  and  with  very  different  insight. 
Then,  we  approached  her  from  without,  charmed  with 

*  1  Cor.  viii.  1.    ^        t  Schiller's  Pice.,  Act  II.  Scene  4. 


32 

her  divine  beauty  and  freshness ;  breathed  upon  by  her 
sweet  influences,  passively  and  unconsciously.  The  Life 
and  Love,  she  seemed  to  exhibit,  were  all  of  our  impart- 
ing. We  had  given  her  our  own  Life.  The  fulness  of 
our  joy  of  heart,  in  our  self-forgetfulness,  we  attributed  to 
her.  The  ten  thousand  sounds  which  came  in  upon  us, — 
the  music  of  birds,  the  murmur  of  streams,  the  roar  of 
woods  and  the  voice  of  men  and  children. — were  but  the 
utterances  of  her  ten  thousand  tongues,  through  which 
flowed  out  from  the  heart  of  Nature,  the  Joy  and  Love 
and  Gladness  which  our  own  fulness  had  imparted  to 
her. 

Science  introduces  us  to  her  through  a  very  different 
door.  We  are  made  acquainted  with  her  inner  life,  with 
her  deep-working  powers.  We  commune  with  her  very 
heart.  And,  from  these  depths,  we  come  out  upon  the 
visible  glories  which  had  formerly  charmed  us,  through  an 
external  approach.  We  accompany  her,  as  it  were,  in 
her  growth,  and  witness  her  developments,  united  to  her 
through  the  two-fold  bond  of  Love  and  Intelligence. 
Here  the  cycle  is  completed.  We  began  with  wonder 
and  unconscious  sympathy.  Familiarity  produced  indiffer- 
ence, 

And  custom  lay  upon  us  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life.  * 

The  green  earth  and  the  blue  heavens  excite  in  us  a 
thrill  no  longer.  The  spontaneous  feeling  and  impulse 
are  despised,  because  they  are  no  longer  felt.  We  turn 
our  backs  upon  Nature  ;  we  exalt  and  deify  science :  be- 
come proud  and  contemptuous  and  wretched.  But  we 

*  Wordsworth. 


33 

find  science,  at  last,  a  dead  and  artificial  thing,  at  best 
but  a  toy  or  a  tool.  And  Nature,  in  some  favorable  mo- 
ment, begins  to  win  her  way  back  into  the  heart,  kind 
benignant  Mother  ! 

Naturam  expelles  ftirca,  tamen  usque  recurret, 
Et  mala  perrumpet  furtim  fastidia  victrix.  * 

The  truth  begins  to  dawn  upon  us,  that  science  is  but  a 
symbolic  language  through  which  to  converse  with  the 
Power  and  Life  of  Nature.  A  new  life  and  meaning  pre- 
sent themselves  to  us,  in  all  her  phenomena.  We  go 
back  to  her  bosom  with  renewed  love  and  humility ;  con- 
verse with  her  again  with  a  deeper  sympathy.  She 
speaks  to  us  now  in  an  intelligible  language  ;  again  she 
breathes  on  us  with  sweet  influences  ;  she  becomes  to  us 
a  friend,  a  counsellor,  a  teacher,  presenting  us 

" books  in  the  running  brooks, 

Sermons  in  stones  and  good  in  every  thing."  f 

Such  does  Nature  become,  to  one  whom  science  has 
introduced  to  her  secrets.  But,  more  of  truth  is  revealed 
to  the  simple,  untaught  lover  of  Nature,  in  her  common 
phenomena,  as  they  fall  upon  the  open  unsophisticated 
sense,  than  was  ever  found  in  science  by  those  who  rest 
in  it,  and  go  not  beyond  it ;  i.  e.  by  those  who  seek  it 
in  the  dead  formulas  of  books,  instead  of  bringing  them- 
selves in  contact  with  the  living  thing  itself ;  who  read 
descriptions  of  its  power  and  workings,  but  never  feel 
them.  It  is  one  thing  to  employ  science  as  the  record 
and  expression  of  the  powers  of  Nature,  and  their  mode 
of  working ;  it  is  quite  another  to  take  that  record  for 
those  powers  themselves.  It  is  one  thing  to  perceive  the 

*  Jlur.  Epibt.  Lib.  1,  9.         t  Love's  Labor  Lost. 


34 

coherency  of  statements  and  reasonings  in  a  book,  and 
quite  another  to  have  an  insight  into  the  unity  of  life 
and  working  of  the  manifold  powers  to  which  those  rea- 
sonings have  reference.  One  man  constructs  science,  as 
the  record  of  what  he  has  himself  seen  and  felt,  of  the 
eternal  deep-working  powers ;  another  takes  this  record, 
not  as  his  guide  to  the  same  insight,  but  as  containing 
those  same  eternal  powers  themselves.  And  these  are 
very  different  men !  The  one  is  an  humble,  powerful 
spirit  communing  with  the  inmost  heart  of  Nature, 
breathed  on  and  invigorated  by  her  life-giving  breath,  and 
fed  with  living  bread  by  her  unfailing  bounty  ;  the  other, 
a  needy  mortal,  weak  and  proud,  having  no  communion 
but  with  the  phantoms  of  his  own  hungry  fancy.  A 
mere  empty  frame  work — a  dead  formula,  is  all  that  of- 
fers itself  to  him  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  his  heart,  and 
his  only  medium  of  intercourse  with  the  Life  of  Nature 
or  the  Hearts  of  men. 

A  good  and  valued  instrument  is  science  to  him,  who, 
by  means  of  it,  has  humbly  and  lovingly  penetrated  to 
the  centre,  and  seen  things  by  the  light  which  beams 
from  thence.  Heaven,  Earth  and  his  own  Heart  beat 
together  in  harmonious  tri-union  !  *  and,  to  his  fiery  feel- 
ings, fiery  words  give  utterance,  communicating  life  and 
warmth  to  kindred  hearts.  And  wide  and  numerous  is 
this  family  of  kindred  hearts.  Such  utterances  bring  us 
to  know  this  brotherhood.  For  by  pouring  in  upon  the 
heart  the  truth  and  the  light  warm-gushing  from  the 
heart,  the  powers  and  longings  of  that  heart  are  awaken- 
ed ;  the  presence  of  the  thing  it  needs  stimulates  it  to 

*  Richter. 


35 

make  the  appropriation,  and  to  seek,  earnestly  and  hum- 
bly, for  more,  and  yet  more  of  that,  which  it  has  found 
to  be  its  bread  of  Life. 

The  truths  to  which  science  leads,  being  thus  appre- 
hended, thus  presented,  and  thus  welcomed,  shall  not  call 
forth  vociferous  applause.  Earnest,  sincere,  and  quiet 
must  the  heart  be  to  listen  to  such  teaching ;  so  must 
it  be  to  heed  and  understand  it ;  and  so  will  it  be  in 
its  consequent  growth  and  development, — healthful,  irre- 
pressible, silent,  like  the  growth  of  the  spring-time ; — 
like  it  beautiful  and  joyous  ; — like  it,  too,  productive  of 
foodful  fruitage.  In  this  there  is  nothing  to  attract  the 
noisy,  busy  multitude.  The  very  soul  of  Beauty,  Truth 
and  Power  may  utter  itself  with  its  unobtrusive,  harmo- 
nious speech,  and  they  be  unwitting  that  aught  has 
broken  the  silence.  But  let  some  Salmoneus,  rivalling 
Jove,  make  thunder,  then  Noise  has  apotheosis,  and  all 
ears  are  open  ! 

It  is  a  saying  of  Milton,  that  "  he  who  would  not  be 
frustrate  of  his  hope  to  write  well  in  laudable  things, 
ought  himself  to  be  a  true  poem,"  that  is,  as  he  himself 
explains,  "a  composition  and  pattern  of  the  best  and 
honorablest  things,  not  presuming  to  sing  high  praises  of 
heroic  men  and  famous  cities,  unless  he  have  in  himself 
the  experience  and  practice  of  all  that  which  is  praise- 
worthy." It  is  worse  than  vain  to  look  without,  to  find 
the  Truth,  or  the  means  of  exhibiting  it.  The  man  must 
first  have  become  filled  with  his  subject.  It  must  have 
its  most  complete  form  and  development  in  him.  The 
moment  he  begins  to  speak  of  any  thing  more  that  what 


36 

he  is,  his  words,  with  however  much  gravity  pronounced, 
and  in  allusion  to  subjects  however'  elevated,  will  be 
equally  vague  and  unmeaning,  to  himself,  and  his  audi- 
tors. That,  alone,  will  actually  instruct  and  permanently 
please,  which  has,  in  itself,  actual  Truth  and  permanent, 
essential  Beauty.  The  collections  of  images  and  figures 
from  without,  which  are  often,  with  more  or  less  inge- 
nuity, worked  up  into  a  semblance  of  Discourse,  how- 
ever much,  for  a  time,  they  may  make  the  "  vain  admire 
and  the  vacant  stare,"  will  soon  lose  their  charm.  On 
the  other  hand,  Discourse  which  is  the  out-speaking  of  a 
full  mind  and  a  full  heart,  with  a  living  freshness  and 
an  adorning  of  flowers,  the  necessary  products  of  its 
own  vitality,  and  the  sure  promise  of  succeeding  fruits, 
although  it  dazzle  less  the  outer  eye,  will  strike  home 
to  the  heart,  and  find  a  lodgement  there  ;  and  will  fur- 
nish an  object  on  which  the  mind's  eye  will  love  to 
dwell,'  and  will  never  tire, — even  as  we  could  gaze  for- 
ever with  still  increased  delight  upon  the  vernal  freshness 
of  the  trees,  or  the  summer  glory  of  the  flowers. 

It  is  obvious,  then, — and  certainly  most  delightful  to 
contemplate, — what  that  Discourse  must  be,  that  will  both 
please  and  instruct  the  people.  The  ample  store  house 
of  materials  which  Nature  and  Man  furnish  can  avail 
little  if  the  vital  principle  be  wanting.  What  profit  the 
rich  soil  and  the  genial  season,  if  the  seed  be  not  hid- 
den in  the  bosom  of  the  Earth?  There  must  be  an 
antecedent  principle  of  vitality  ;  i.  e.  the  idea  of  the 
thing  to  be  spoken  must  be  in  the  mind  complete  and 
clear.  To  give  expression  and  form  to  this  Idea  is,  or 
ought  to  be,  the  end  for  which  we  employ  words,  illus- 


37 

trations,  facts ;  or,  rather,  it  is  for  its  own  development, 
that  this  quick  Idea  takes  to  itself  words,  as  it  were 
wings,  and  on  these  nimble,  airy  pinions  flies  forth  spirit- 
like  every  way  at  once,  seeking  what  sincere,  prepared 
heart  it  may  enter,  and  beget  in  it,  also,  light  and  life. 

Certain  it  is  materials  are  not  the  only  thing  need- 
ful} — an  arranging,  methodizing  idea — a  vital  principle  is 
also  requisite.  All  the  processes  which  precede  and 
accompany  growth  must  be  passed  through.  Discourse 
cannot  be  built  up,  as  a  carpenter  builds  a  barn,  with  an 
oaken  post  here  and  a  pine  one  there,  such  as  they  grew 
in  the  forest.  It  would  be  better  symbolized  by  the  pine 
itself,  before  it  was  torn  from  its  native  hills,  which, 
although  it  had  grown  up  out  of  the  ruins  of  a  thousand 
various  substances,  yet,  partakes,  in  itself,  of  the  nature 
of  none  of  them  ;  it  takes  them  up  into  itself,  and,  far 
from  conforming  to  any  quality  of  theirs,  remoulds  and 
almost  recreates  them  into  its  own  pre-determined  sub- 
stance, with  its  own  stately  form,  and  perennial,  tufted 
foliage. 

Besides,  to  Discourse,  so  constituted,  flowers  and  imagery 
are  not  appendages,  but  constituent  parts.  They  grow 
out  of  it ;  they  are  not  put  on.  They  furnish  unequiv- 
ocal evidence  of  its  genuineness,  and  are  always  the 
harbingers  of  substantial  fruits  and  the  pledge  of  perpe- 
tuity. When  thus  spontaneous,  how  lovely  they  are ; 
some  in  full  bloom  ;  others  but  just  peeping  shyly  from 
the  bud ;  while  some  are  dropping  their  faded  petals,  one 
by  one,  from  around  the  expanding  fruit.  How  unsuit- 
able it  were  to  pluck  a  lily  from  the  meadow,  or  a  rose 
from  the  garden  to  give  additional  ornament ;  nay,  let 


38 

each  hang  on    its  own  stalk  and  be  the  glory  of  its  own 
kind! 

Figures  and  imagery  thus  used  are  not  illustrations, 
merely,  but  manifestations.  They  do  not  give  obscure 
notions  of  the  thing,  but  show  up  the  thing  itself.  They 
are  not  the  mere  indications  of  life  and  truth  in  the 
discourse,  but  have  life  and  truth  in  themselves.  They 
are,  as  I  have  said,  not  appendages,  but  parts.  Discourse 
thus  constructed  is  indeed — what  it  ought  to  be — a 
perfect  organism,  to  repeat  the  figure — like  a  flourishing 
tree,  with  its  roots,  trunk  and  vital  sap ;  its  branches, 
green  leaves,  flowers  and  fruit. 

I  have  done  what  I  proposed.  I  have  exposed  the 
nature  of  the  literary  demand  of  the  day,  and  the  char- 
acter of  the  production,  which  is  offered  as  its  supply. 
I  have  also  shown  what  are  the  true  wants  of  the 
spirit,  and  what  is  requisite  to  meet  and  satisfy  these 
wants, — thus  presenting  before  you  the  data  necessary  to 
the  solution  of  the  problem  proposed,  viz  : — To  determine 
the  import  and  value  of  the  phenomenon  which  has  been 
the  subject  of  discourse.  I  cheerfully  grant  that  much 
of  good  and  best  has  made  its  appearance  in  these  days, 
even  under  the  form  of  '  lectures.'  But  such  are  by  no 
means  peculiar  to  these  times,  and  constitute  no  part  of 
the  phenomenon  in  question. 

I  have  dwelt  on  this  subject  the  longer,  and  have  spo- 
ken the  more  freely,  because  it  is  to  you,  Gentlemen  of 
the  Literary  Societies,  that  such  truths  are  appropri- 
ately presented.  If  not  on  this  occasion,  and  before 
this  audience,  where  shall  they  be  uttered  ?  It  is  well 


39 

for  us  all,  as  early  as  possible,  to  understand  that  the 
life  of  the  scholar,  at  this  day,  may  not  be  spent  peace- 
fully, "  in  the  quiet  and  still  air  of  delightful  studies  ;"* 
but  that  duty  imperiously  calls  us  forth  to  arduous  labor 
in  a  rough  field.  And  you  see  plainly  there  is  wanted 
a  power  of  truth  and  learning  and  eloquence,  to  break 
up  the  present  shadowy,  but  pretentious  foundations,  on 
which  men  are  building,  or  dream  of  building,  and  to 
lay  others  grounded  in  Reason  and  Truth.  This  is  the 
work  that  presents  itself  to  our  hands, — formidable,  cer- 
tainly !  But  remember  the  power  of  Truth — vital  Truth, 
clearly  perceived — how  it  stirs  the  soul,  giving  the  life 
and  breath  to  that  "  resistless  eloquence,  wielding  at  will 
the  fierce  democtratie  ;"f  and  remember  too,  thou  earnest 
scholar, — for  I  hope  I  am  addressing  many  such, — how 
progressive  and  expansive  is  thought, — how  it  works  and 
grows  in  the  mind,  until  it  bursts  out  and  shows  itself 
in  some  burning  word  or  everlasting  deed  ;  for  an  act 
is  but  the  expression  of  a  thought,  an  expression  far 
more  emphatic  and  more  intelligible  than  that  of  words. 
Only  from  the  depths  of  the  earnest,  thoughtful  spirit 
come  forth  such  words  and  deeds.  For  eloquence  is 
like  the  breezy  forest,  obvious,  beautiful  and  strong ;  and, 
like  it,  needs  the  dark  stillness  of  an  inner  life  and 
warmth  to  send  it  forth.  The  seed  germinates  in  si- 
lence and  darkness,  and  fastens  there  its  roots,  that 
the  beautiful  wavy  top  may  be  supported  and  fed. 
Says  Goethe,  "  If  you  do  not  feel  it,  you  will  not  get 
it  by  hunting  for  it, — if  it  does  not  gush  from  the 
soul  and  subdue  the  hearts  of  all  hearers  with  original 

*  Milton's  Prose  Works.  t  Paradise  Regained. 


delight.  Sit  at  it  forever,  glue  together,  cook  up  a 
hash  from  another's  feast,  and  blow  your  own  little  heap 
of  ashes  to  a  paltry  flame, — you  may  gain  the  admira- 
tion of  children  and  apes,  if  you  have  a  taste  for  it ; 
but  you  will  never  touch  the  hearts  of  others,  if  it  does 
not  flow  fresh  from  your  own."* 

But  a  tempest  in  a  puddle  seems,  to  the  insect  on  its 
surface,  a  fearful  thing,  while  it  feels  not  and  wots  not 
of  the  great  earth-movement,  that  leaves  its  puddle  rel- 
atively unmoved.  It  is  the  irregular,  the  accidental,  the 
superficial,  that  urges  itself  upon  the  notice.  It  is  this 
that  receives  attention  and  is  wondered  at.  It  is  this 
that  constitutes  the  vulgar  notion  of  the  powerful  and 
sublime.  The  gray  old  sea  is  heaving  continually,  and 
moving  in  her  bed,  but  it  is  the  commotion  made  by 
transient  winds,  on  some  small  area  of  its  surface,  that 
is  perceived.  So  the  powers  that  move  the  depths  of 
the  human  spirit,  work  silent  and  unnoticed  by  the 
common  eye,  while  these  chance  gusts,  that  move  a  rip- 
ple on  the  surface,  dying  away  with  the  accident  that 
raised  it,  are  contemplated  with  wonder. 

I  know  a  clergyman  who  is  said  by  short  sighted 
people  '  never  to  have  done  any  good,'  because  a  pre- 
scribed set  of  results  have  not  immediately  followed  his 
labors ;  though  it  is  true  that  he  has  uniformly  and  con- 
stantly impressed  upon  the  hearts  of  men,  those  cen- 
tral and  pervading  truths,  which  work  silently  but  pow- 
erfully, confirming  and  conforming,  until  the  whole  as- 
pect and  tone  of  society,  in  the  manner  of  '  Nature's 
gradual  processes,'  have  undergone  a  progressive  change; 

*  Hayward's  Faust. 


41 

"  first  the  blade,  then  the  ear,  after  that  the  full  corn 
in  the  ear."*  Would  there  were  more  such !  But  mul- 
titudes there  are — would  they  were  fewer — who,  being 
themselves  in  a  continual  effervescence,  keep  a  perpet- 
ual tempest  around  them,  disturbing  the  surface  vastly, 
but  leaving  the  depths  unmoved  ;  "  and  to  these  men  all 
give  heed,  from  the  least  unto  the  greatest,"  saying,  as 
of  Simon  the  sorcerer  aforetime,  "These  men  are  the 
great  power  of  God."f 

People  must  be  addressed  in  a  language  to  them  in- 
telligible, certainly  ;  nevertheless,  they  do  not  know  the 
relations  of  the  things,  which  they  are  made  to  per- 
ceive, to  each  other  and  to  the  truth,  nor  can  they  be 
taught  them,  except  by  him  who  has  been  at  the  cen- 
tre, and  seen  how  things  look  there.  Their  true  teach- 
er will  not  speak  as  if  in  the  centre,  for  that  were  un- 
intelligible, but  as  if  on  the  surface,  to  those  who  see 
and  are  on  the  surface,  but  he  will  throw  upon  it  the 
light  which  beams  up  from  the  centre,  reflected  from  his 
own  understanding.  The  light  which  beams  from  the 
centre  immediately,  is  too  dazzling  for  the  common  vis- 
ion, and  would  but  destroy  the  eye  which  it  was  in- 
tended to  illuminate.  Like  the  sun-light,  it  must  be 
thrown  upon  the  common,  obvious  objects  that  surround, 
and  thence  reflected  to  the  eye.  Discourse  not  then  to 
the  people  of  the  root,  but  show  them  the  tree.  Talk 
not  to  them  of  a  central  light,  but  show  them  living 
things,  which  that  light  animates,  reveals  and  warms,  and 

*  Mark  iv.  2d.  I  Acts  viii.  10. 


42 

they   will   surely   acknowledge    them,   and   be  taught   and 
strengthened. 

If  it  were  suitable  for  me  to  counsel  you,  I  might  say 
to  you  in  the  words  of  Goethe,  "  Keep  the  true  object 
steadily  in  view.  Be  no  tinkling  fools.  Reason  and 
good  sense  are  expressed  with  little  art.  And  when  you 
are  seriously  intent  on  saying  something,  is  it  necessary 
to  hunt  for  words  ?"  *  But,  I  know,  too  well,  the  spirit 
of  the  instruction  you  have  received,  and  the  powers  that 
yet  live  in  the  midst  of  you,  to  think  any  such  counsel 
needful.  And,  besides,  the  memory  of  that  great,  good 
manf  who  has  been  taken  from  us  in  the  midst  of  his 
days,  will  live  perpetually  in  our  hearts.  Though  too 
high  and  too  sacred  for  our  emulation,  his  example  shall 
still  shed  its  mild  light  upon  our  pathway,  and  its  genial 
warmth  upon  our  hearts.  It  is  true,  and  I  would  not 
have  it  otherwise,  that  a  sense  of  sorrow  and  desolation 
comes  over  us,  and  seems  to  pervade  all  these  familiar 
scenes,  which  but  yesterday  smiled  in  the  mild  radiance 
of  his  greatness,  and  we  almost  chide  our  hearts,  that 
they  do  not  also  cease  to  beat,  when  the  great,  the 
good,  the  loved  and  honored  has  departed.  But  yet,  we 
know  he  is  not  dead.  He  lives  and  works  in  a  thousand 
grateful  hearts  ; 

" his  living  words 

He  scattered  not  in  ears,  but  grafted  them 
To  grow  there  and  to  bear." — SHAK. 

And    I    know   not    how    to  take  leave  of  you,  now,  with- 
out  expressing   the   sincerest    wish  of  my    heart,   that  we 

*  Faust.  t  Prof.  Marsh. 


who  have  known  and  loved  him  may  be  bound  more 
closely  to  each  other  in  the  affection  with  which  we  cher- 
ish his  memory  ;  and  find  our  hearts  mutually  strength- 
ened in  the  assiduity  with  which  we  strive  to  imitate  his 
example  and  be  actuated  by  his  spirit. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
II    II    III    III          III 


A    001  116957     o 


